The Awkward Violin Playing
by davyjonesninthtentacle
Summary: Johnlock (john/sherlock) John and Sherlock fall into a sweet romance as Sherlock grapples with an entirely new kind of case. Things get a little awkward when Lestrade pops in for another 'drugs bust'
1. Prolouge

**The Awkward Violin Playing**

Intro/short prologue

I watched as the bittersweet raindrops laced the contours of his face and merged with the salted tears of his frustration. It was a silent cry that fell from his pursed lips. Those lips, though pursed in deep consideration rather than in invitation for my familiar embrace, held a desire for me that was almost as strong and deep as the muscles in his toned arms as they tensed when he wrapped them around my sleepy form that first day. I longed to hold his pained face close to mine and share the pain through the sweet binding of his lips to my own and the gentle satisfaction of tingling tongues as we wrap said vocal implements into a closer embrace than we could ever form with our merely human arms. But I knew that was not what he needed at this critical time. I could tell by the tone of his discordant playing that this was going to be a rather rough time for the pair of us.

The harsh screech of the horse hair bow upon the taut strings spoke a very different tale to the one that the bow would have spoken tonight had the 'great case' not been so suddenly thrown upon the tortured soul of my partner. Sherlock raised a skeletal hand to his cheek to wipe away a few large tears that had flown from the deep blue reservoirs that are his eyes. Yes , it was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 1

**The Awkward Violin Playing**

Chapter 1 – four days after the arrival of the great case

Sherlock was still broken. He'd stopped eating and spent the majority of his free time rocking back and forth in the armchair,contorted into a tight fetal position. The armchair rocked with him as he was taken by the tail of this tornado of a case. He'd begun to close me out and at first my embraces were shunned and the once loved touch of my fingertips as they traced his arching collarbones was little more than a tolerable intrusion upon his disheveled form. I think that was how I knew the case was different , more important than the others. His hair was ruffled without my touch and that could not be good.

I tried so many ways to comfort him. I wrapped my arms about him as he swayed so that his stern jaw could nestle in my chest as the crown of his head brushed my lips. I sat by him as he stared at the rain and leaned into his shoulder as I told him stories of my boyhood. Primary school held most of his favourite tales. He loved to hear of my daring playground adventures and of how I sussed many an old bully's motives. But alas, no luck. No kiss or kind word was going to fix this. I even told him about how I had felt that first day when he had shouted back up at the twisting staircase to tell me how I should dress for dinner that evening. 'Pink'. It's funny how a misunderstanding can bring someone's guard down and so make easy the entrance to a whole new world of love and passion and frisky excitement. I told him he was right. I did look good in pink.

I should probably take a moment now to throw open the door a little further and explain what happened that day. Come in, push the door, step over my cardigan and mind Sherlock's scarf ( he likes that scarf to be kept very clean) and draw close, observe.

The First Day by Dr John. H. Watson.

Sherlock and I had planned a dinner for the evening to sit and discuss the rather complex case over the rather delicious and highly satisfying cooking of my kind housek...Landlady, Mrs Hudson. I believe the meal was intended as a thank you to Sherlock for some favor or another relating to the missing head of her late husband which Sherlock found, I believe, by the simple process of bringing it down from our fridge.

I had been debating the issue of how to dress for the occasion and was feeling a little embarrassed as I was quite sure that Sherlock had noticed this and I was able to deduce my feelings about the importance of the date...ermm... the dinner. It was because of this that I anxiously jumped upon anything Sherlock said that day as an awkwardly but graciously accepted response to my Dilemma. That man's brain is an enigma, what else was 'pink!' supposed to mean? So , anyway, that evening I arrived at the dinner table sporting a pastel pink shirt and flamingo print tie coupled with a black waistcoat with pink pinstripes. My trousers were just black. This was a dinner after all and not a parade. As I sat down, an expression of the deepest confusion crossed Sherlock's face. I sensed that he was also a tad annoyed.  
" Your choice of dress is odd, John. Why is that you have chosen to do this to me?" his voice was weak and vulnerable. He sounded like a pubescent voice was entirely reminiscent of my first experiences when I was young but there is no way that I shall ever tell him so. It was not until afterwards that I noticed one of the seat cushions had been hastily unfastened from the chair beside him.

The rest of the dinner seemed pleasant, though it was disappointingly formal but later I heard Sherlock's slow measured footsteps as he paced back and forth , clearly bothered by the evening's events and the noise was followed by the sound of him walking the stairs to my bedroom

"John." His voice was deep and was very odd for him to speak my name in this way. And it was a lot more pleasing than his usual harried knock. I was still a little embarrassed by what had happened but I let him in anyway. He came and sat beside me on the bed. I remember noticing how the blankets folded and creased under the pert form of his gluteus maximus. The curves made every inch of my body tingle and I shuddered in unison with him, as if he too could sense the tense tingling that seemed to fill the room.

" I wanted to tell you that I , despite my unfair outburst, found your outfit this evening to be rather aesthetically pleasing. I also found that the form upon which the cloths were held provided a service that many a man has paid many a pound for in among the neon lights that flash brightly with a chemical charge not nearly as great as the charge that those ermm... many men feel in the groinal area for the purpose of helping the actions that allow the continuation of the race I previously thought to be ordinary," Sherlock said. The extent to which he was out of his depth made me relax so that I was greatly unprepared for the dialogue that followed.  
" So I look good in pink?," I asked, laughing.  
" Ravishing," he replied before taking the tie ,that I had not yet removed, between his fingers and gently pulling me down on to the mattress beside him with my head drawn close to his. We stayed there for what seemed like a glorious eternity and I began to wonder if my good friend had been so annoyed by my attire that he had taken his bayonet and given me a swift one way ticket to paradise. But no,I know that this was real. Sherlock pinched me. Then,as I grew weary, I allowed myself to slip further into his arms until I was comfortably nestled against his lap, my head pulled in as if I were curling into a ball so that my chin was tucked to my chest and the weight of my head pressed against his firm torso. My legs were drawn close together and brought perpendicular to the rest of my form so that they rested comfortably against his and my feet hooked around his back. I clung to him in that way as I fell asleep and I was still held in the same position , though a little more loosely, when I awoke under his deep,sleepy ,delicious ,minty breaths a blissful five hours later.

John.

Not even that memory could resolve the growing conflict in Sherlock's mind and ,if anything, the mention of the elusive love that he had tried so hard to grapple with for our relationship seemed to only worsen his turmoil. I assumed that he was simply weary. The concept of love was still relatively new to him and I believed that he had grown tired of it. I assumed that he did not want this.I could not have been more wrong.


	3. Chapter 2

The awkward violin playing- chapter three.

I was awoken by Sherlock's firm hands grasping my shoulder's. He was shaking me in an hurried and urgent fashion and I bolted upright, sure that something terrible must be occurring. When the sleepiness had begun to clear from my eyes I could see that Sherlock was crying. With each droplet that fell on to my shoulder as he clung to me I felt a painful rip in the fabric of my soul and I swore that I would track down the ringleader of Sherlock's case and ensure that such rips were turned upon them.

"John" he said

"Sherlock, are you okay? Was it a nightmare?" I asked, my voice cracking as I tried not to burst into tears as well.

He shook his head slightly and opened his mouth hesitantly. He was going to speak but clearly thought better of it and landed a small kiss upon my cheek.

" You're... it 's okay," he said to me as he slipped slowly from the room.

"Ermm. Okay. Right," Sherlock had closed the door and I sat up in bed, speaking to no-one in particular. Then the house fell silent for a few moments before I heard the sound of stressed horse hair on taut nylon. His violin. The notes were random and clashing. The sound horrific and torturous but woe betide anyone who tells him so.

Later that day, when I could stand the noise no longer, I decided too call Lestrade. I needed to know what this case as. He picked up the phone and answered angrily.

" Whatever it is, it's not my division"

" Lestrade, it's me. John."

" Oh, shit. How's he doing?"

" He's not so good. He won't concentrate, he keeps staring at me and he's playing that goddamned violin.

" Oh"

There was a painfully awkward silence.

" This case that Sherlock's working on"

" I'll explain in a minute; I'm coming round"

I heard the long beep as he hung up.

The doorbell rang and Sherlock stopped mid tune, put down his violin and went to answer it. A few minutes later he came back with Lestrade following close behind him. They both sat down awkwardly. For a moment I thought they were going to give me 'the talk'.

"There's been a murder at the Steersmen in town."

I tried to lighten the mood. I punched Sherlock playfully on the Shoulder and played with a few of the overgrown locks that tickled his cheek.

"We always like a good juicy murder don't we ,Sherlock?"

He whimpered and twisted away from me.

" Lockie?"

Lestrade turned to me as he poured a large measure of whisky into a glass and handed it to Sherlock.

" The Steersmen is a gay bar. There's been a spate of homophobic crimes all over London."

So that was the problem. He was scared. Or angry maybe. The press had uncovered his 'Suicide' and photographs of our reunion had been released by the paparazzi. We thought that they wouldn't be able to see into my bedroom clearly they could and I did not appreciate the world knowing about what we did that night. Sherlock could never go out in the deerstalker again.


End file.
